Ring Redux

I was pretty much beside myself with excitement when I finally got home last night after a long slow waitressing shift at Toro and found the check for my engagement ring in my mailbox. I almost tore it right open in the foyer.

I can't believe it, I thought as I climbed up the stairs towards my fourth floor walk-up. After holding on to that damn thing for 3+ years, I'm finally free of it - and richer for it! Whatever will I do with the money?

Then, as I rounded the corner between flights 2 and 3, a more rational voice inside my head reminded me: No matter how much they offer you for the ring, it will never feel like enough.

I shrugged off my coat and threw my bag and apron on the floor when I reached the top floor, bracing for the possibilities as I tore the envelope open. But no amount of practical reasoning could have prepared me for what I found:

A check made out to me in the amount of $120.44.

That's not even enough to pay my damn cell phone bill.

While I didn't expect to be magically rich from the sale of my engagement ring setting, I know the damn thing appraised for ten times as much when it given to me back in 2002. I have no idea how jewelry sales works, if these things tend to appreciate or depreciate in value. But I know I can't sell it for $120.44. I not that desperate for money. And I am definitely too proud.

Now I have to call Customer Service and ask them to send the damn thing back to me. And think of something else to do with this vestige of my former life.

Boo jewelry site.

Boo old engagement ring.

Boo trying to place monetary value on sentimental things.

BLONDE DISPATCHES: The Anti-Marilyn and the Pitfalls of Being Blonde

by TommyGirl

Sometimes I forget that I have blonde hair. That's because I've spent most of my pre-adult and adult life trying to make others ignore that fact. I've always been aware that people pre-judge me based on how I look. And every time I meet a new person I know I have to overcome their unfair expectations. No, I'm not high maintenance; I live in jeans and Chucks. No, I don't work out all the time and eat celery and rice cakes; in fact I hate the gym and eat lots of meat. No, I never cheered for sports other than when I watch my favorite football team. No thank you, I don't want a cocktail, I want a beer (and I don't want a glass for it).

I had college professors who were guilty of assigning me some societal role based on how I look. One told me that he was sure I had been a cheerleader in high school. Another said to me that I "looked like the girl who dates the quarterback." Who were they to say these things to me without knowing anything but my name and student ID number? Should I have said to them, "you look like the guy who jacks off to pre-teen internet porn every night?" Or, "you look like someone who used to be thin and now your self-loathing causes you to be unfair to the pretty girls in your class?"

The fact is, I went to a super nerdy high school that didn't even have a football team. I had an appropriate level of angst, loved rock music, played sports, and generally didn't pay much attention to my hair. Unfortunately, when I got to college I discovered I was woefully unprepared to navigate the complex social hierarchy. The girls were so unfriendly to me and I had no idea why. My mom's words echoed in my head, "They're just jealous." But I couldn't believe that they would be jealous of me. I had no style. I was clumsy, loud, and socially retarded. Truly, big boobs and blonde hair will make girls come to some stupid conclusions.

As I've gotten older, I have come to embrace my blonde hair. I don't fight it anymore. When girls meet me now, I am aware the wheels in their heads are already turning. I greet them with a big smile and a loud hello. And I burp and cuss and let my Tommy Boy sense of humor show through until they know I am not just a bubbly babe masking a cruel penchant for gossip. I think Cameron Diaz kind of saved me. When she burst onto the movie scene and became a sex symbol for embodying the anti-Marilyn, I knew I was going to be OK. I love Marilyn. I'm just so not her. Cameron briefly abandoned me for a brunette phase. I'm so thankful she came back.

Living in a society that values blondes as sex symbols and not much else forced me to rebel against the stereotype. I'm glad I have blonde hair. I think it's made me develop my personality and figure out who I am. And it has most definitely gotten me into a few concerts and out of a few speeding tickets.

TommyGirl lives, works, and defies blonde stereotypes by drinking beer and cussing in the Northeast.

A Different Kind of Undercover Blonde: An Interview with Double Agent Shallon Lester

To the casual reader of this blog, it might appear that I am a hater of the opposite sex. This couldn't be further from the truth. I love boys, I just hate it when they act like total choads.

Thankfully, there are other like-minded women out there who have set their sites on making a difference, like Shallon, a correspondent for the dude-centric website, DoubleAgent.com. In real life, Shallon is a gossip reporter for the New York Daily News, and an author. As an undercover agent, Shallon offers advice to guys on everything from dating to dressing to how not to act like a total gorilla all the time and maybe get a date with an awesome girl through frequent posts to her DoubleAgent.com vlog. And she's hilarious. I caught up with this undercover blonde recently and asked her a few questions about her blondeness.

KITTY: What do you think it means to be a natural blonde? Are you one?

SHALLON: Any blonde worth her peroxide will INSIST that yes of course she's au natural. Which I am. Of course. Scientists say that men subconsciously view blondes as more attractive because they are more rare, and thus more valuable. So ladies, since we don't have to worry about "brunette issues" like plucking our unibrow and mustache, remember to use your seductive powers for good, not evil.

KITTY: Double Agent isn't your first undercover mission – you also recently went undercover as a Swedish bikini waxer who loves yorkies and auditioned to be Paris Hilton's best friend. Did you use blondeness to your advantage for either "assignment"? How about in your role as a gossip columnist for the New York Daily News?

SHALLON: No one can resist a blonde, not even a fellow blondie like Paris Hilton. When I'm interviewing celebrities I can get away with more playing the ditz and acting like I had no clue my question might be inflammatory or offensive. But I'll just use my hair as bait, then when they least expect it, I strike! They call me the Blonde Viper. Ok fine not really. But I really wish people would.

KITTY: Have you ever dyed your hair brown, or any other color? What was that experience like for you? If you haven't, would you?

SHALLON: I am ashamed to say once dyed my hair dark brown when I lived in Italy, so I could "blend in." Pfft! What a mistake. I looked tired and washed out and...ordinary. But I did noticed that I got fewer looks from guys but the ones who did hit on me did so with more intensity. Quality versus quantity, I guess. But I went back to golden tones because I'm in to acquisition--I collect boys as some collect Fabrege eggs.

KITTY: A study published last fall suggests that men act stupider around blonde women, subconsciously mimicking what they believe to be the lesser intelligence of a blonde woman in order to "get along with her"? Has this happened to you?

SHALLON: This study is wrong. Clearly men act dumber around us because they're so beguiled by our beauty, our wholesome Nordic looks, that they can't string together a sentence. Poor things. Who can blame them? We turn even the toughest guy into babbling little butterballs. Military interrogators would be so much more effective with some strategically placed highlights.

KITTY: Your best friend is about to dye her hair blonde for the very first time. What's the one thing you think she NEEDS to know about how her life will be different before she reaches for bleach?

SHALLON: Buy stock in condoms. :)

my new work spouse

Tonight a man in an eggshell colored suit waved me over from the bar to compliment me on my hair. '"I have to say, it suits you perfectly," he soliloquized. "Where do you get it cut, somewhere around here? It's beautiful, it's fabulous.

I assumed he was gay, but should have thought twice about it I suppose. As he sat there at the bar and got drunker and drunker, I noticed that each time I walked by, he kept looking at me. Eventually, after imbibing enough alcohol to be *truly* bold, he waved me over, out of my way, to tell me he 'had to tell me something': "I don't want to interrupt your work so come over again when you have a second, okay?" he said. Sure thing.

About an hour later I noticed that same man talking to Juanito at the bread table. They were conversing very quickly in Spanish - I suspect I know what this is about, I thought. Really? Tonight? Does this have to be happening to me tonight? The problem is, I really know only one way to diffuse situations like this, when the drunk man decides it's time to hit on the waitress: act flattered but not TOO flattered, lest drunk guy misinterprets your body language and decides that you love him back; politely explain that I'm not interested because I have a boyfriend but imply - obligatorily, mind you - that if I wasn't taken I'd love to share a drink because he's quite a catch!; and generally just smile and nod the whole damn time trying to pretend that I don't want to just crawl into a hole and die of embarrassment.

But when he walked away so did Juan, as though nothing had happened at all. Huh, maybe tonight I'm off the hook? I thought.

Fifteen minutes later, Juan came up to me and said, "Mona, that guy over there are Bar 4 says he is in love with you."

"Juanito, did you tell him you are my boyfriend and you're going to kick his ass if he doesn't stop staring at me?"

Juan said no, but I encouraged him to, in the future, tell people we're married when situations like this arise. Juanito jjust laughed at me, but I totally want him to be my work spouse.

my television debut

I've become very forgetful in the past six months or so. It's strange, and very unlike me.

I'm a Virgo, okay? We're anal. And I'm a publicist, a writer, and a waitress. Each of these roles requires -- no, demands -- sharp faculties of memory. If you can't recall basic details, how can you make sure your clients have everything they need for their upcoming interviews? If you can't describe detail, you probably can't master that basic "show don't tell" part of good writing. And if you can't remember what dishes/drinks your table ordered, in addition to remembering to bring the items to the table, check on their enjoyability, refill them when they are empty, etc, etc, you are probably a miserable excuse for a waitress. So yeah, having a good memory has always been on my shortlist of strong skills.

You could even say I take this memory for granted. Forgetful people, the type who are forever losing their keys, leaving their wallet at home, forgetting their purse in a taxi, or have to use a passport to get into bars since they haven't seen their driver's license since 2002 elude me. Don't get me wrong, some of my best friends are forgetful people: they forget appointments, run late, forget to call, don't do their homework, get locked out of the house, time and again. And I bail them out, patiently. But I have never understood how these loved ones get by in the world in spite of this basic impediment to their functionality. "How did you throw your keys in the trash can AGAIN???" I'd think, totally perturbed, while rummaging up to my elbows in garbage helping Camilla look for her car keys. "How is this possible? How have you done this three times since January???" No one needs to be shamed when they're down, so I always kept these thoughts to myself. But still...I mean, really? You threw your keys in the trash?

Then, suddenly, starting sometime this March, I became very spacey. It happened suddenly, without warning. I have taken to leaving my ATM card behind me every which way I go, like a little Hansel & Gretel trail of breadcrumbs: at the Franklin, at Pho Pasteur, in various ATM machines -- a nice security guard chased me down the street and gave it back to me last time i did that. I thanked him profusely, as I had only just gotten the new card in the mail the day before. You could blame the booze for the night at the Franklin, but every other time I've made this error, I've been sober.

Like today. When I left the house to go to work and completely forgot to put on make-up. I managed to get tinted moisturizer on my face, and to get out the door sporting my laptop, my work uniform, my purse, and two pieces of organic fruit to snack on later -- but that's where my preparedness for the day ended. There was no eyeliner, no eye shadow, and no mascara. When I was a dark brunette I needed lots of make-up to make myself look presentable -- eyeliner on top & bottom lids, lots of shadow, lip gloss or lip stick every day -- because the color made my skin look so washed out. As a blonde it doesn't take much for me to look like a normal human being, but still -- I never leave the house without at least putting mascara, unless I'm going to yoga or across the street to Francesca's for coffee. Without it on I feel totally naked, like I just left the house and realized, "Ooops, I forgot to put on my shirt!"

For a hot minute I thought this would be fine: "Who cares? It's just Toro, right? It's dark in there all the time anyway."

wWrong. When I got to Toro today, I was promptly informed that my naked face in all it's exposed glory was going to be on TV. "A show called Local Flavor hosted by Master Sommelier Andrea Immer, is be coming in to tape a segment," my manager said. "They're going in your section, you're their waitress."

Fortunately I'd had time to duck into the ghetto Walgreen's on Washington and buy some Maybelline Great Lash on the way from PR job to waitressing job. Still, I'm quite confident that in the harsh glow of the TV lights my eyes looked beady and small, my skin looked flush and blotchy from nerves, and all the rest of me looked fat, what with the camera adding ten pounds and my PMS adding five of its own to the cause.

So much for my "big break." One can only hope that my natural charm shined through as I smiled like Miss America and spoke emotively about each of the dishes I served to hosts Andrea and John: "These are the gaaaa-mbas al ajiiii-llo" [nodding knowingly, reassuringly]; "This is the mai-iiiz, the corn, the specialty of the house -- be sure to squeeze the lime over the dish before you dig in" [like their personal corn cheerleader]

You can look for the segment on Delta flights nationwide, and I'll be sure to let you know once it's up on the web.

This may be the only fifteen minutes I get, after all blotchy skin & beady eyes notwithstanding.

100 years of Bette Davis

If Bette Davis were alive, today she'd turn 100. Some interesting articles about her career and her successes can be read here and here.

A two time Oscar winner, the indefatiguable Davis hailed from the Bay State (one source says Lowell, another Newton -- I'll have to do some more research to be sure.) I can't think of a single actress working in Hollywood now whom I'd compare to her -- they just don't make 'em like they used to.

More on Bette Davis later as she's a (sometimes) blonde who truly catches my fancy and always has -- for now, let's raise a toast to the Grand Dame of a bygone era by trying one of these, which she sipped on camera in the film Dark Victory, which she appeared in with Humphrey Bogart and Ronald Reagan. (I'd like to also give a shout out to one of my fellow LUPEC Boston broads, who chose this cocktail as her namesake.)

Pink Gin

1 glass gin
half a dozen drops (no more) of Angostura bitters

Stir with ice & strain into a cocktail glass.

Happy Birthday, Bette Davis!

vow of silence Friday: Is it true...blondes have more fun?

vow of silence Wednesday: this weekend, LUPEC Boston's taking toro by storm...

my armor

Last Sunday I was rushing to Toro for work, late. I was dressed totally incorrectly for the weather. It was glaringly sunny out so I'd assumed I'd be fine if I wore my short down jacket, hat, scarf and gloves for the fifteen minute walk from upper to lower South End. I was mistaken; the wind was icy & whipping with a surprising vengeance and after just half a block my eyes were tearing from the gusts and I was really, really cold. I felt lost without my puffy coat armor, with its cocoon-like length and its encompassing hood.

I turned left at West Dedham, rushing passing the post office and Villa Victoria, slaloming past a woman with a baby carriage and an old Asian man hobbling down the street in blue sweat pants. There were two young guys talking at the end of the street, and I felt them staring at me as I approached. I ducked my head down and tried to become invisible as I passed. For a minute I thought it worked! Neither of them said anything as I scurried past...

Then, once I was about ten feet away they started hollering: "Hey, snow bunny, where you goin'? It's gonna be alright! Damn, girl, you look good...." their voices faded into a gust of wind as I turned left to rush down Shawmut.

And there it was, that old familiar feeling: shame, embarrassment, one part anger, one part fear, seeping into my belly and up through my chest like terrible ink spilled on gleaming pale carpet. 100% usurping of my power. I realized as I walked: my puffy coat is more than just an armor against bad weather. It's an armor against catcalls. With its broad shapeless mid-section and its massive tent-like hood, my puffy has protected me from this feeling all winter long.

And underneath my puffy, my heart has grown soft. Spared from these comments all these months, I've let my skin get thinner, let myself become more open to this kind of verbal onslaught. A tiny little comment that should have rolled off like droplets of water slithering down a duck's feathers left me shocked, irked, vulnerable, and embarrassed. It really, truly made me feel like shit. As opposed to how I usually react to catcalling, when it makes me feel just a little bit like shit.

I cursed my decision to fore go the puffy coat.

radiant beauty

Misty and I are talking shop over plate of sliced meats at the Butcher Shop.

She has just an hour to kill before she heads next door to attend the cocktail demonstration David Wondrich and John Gertsen are giving next door at Stir. We've worked our way thru glass #1.5 of wine and are debating whether there's time to order any percentage more when our friend K., Misty's date for the evening walks in...

...and right past us to say hello to David and John as they chat over a plate of offal at a table a few feet away.

"Hmm...?" Misty says. "Guess he didn't see us."
"Guess not," I shrug. The Butcher Shop is small and he'll see us eventually; we return to our gossip and jamon.

When K. finally comes over to say hello, he apologizes wholeheartedly: "Ladies, I didn't see you when I walked in! It's just that John is glowing so radiantly this evening! His radiant light was the only thing I saw when I walked in the door!" We turn to John, who is deeply engrossed in his conversation with Mr. Wondrich. "Perhaps it's his vest?" K. offers.

We chat for a moment before K. excuses himself: "These gentleman bought me this glass of wine, ladies, so I suppose I should go and join them. Regrettably; John may be glowing exceptionally this evening, but you ladies are of greater substance."

We giggle as he walks away, and I can't help but wonder: when was the last time a man listed my substantial nature as the most compelling reason to stay and chat? Usually it's, "You girls look lovely this evening, as ever" or "I hate to leave such pretty ladies, but I must go join these fellows", regardless of how lovely or unlovely I may actually look on a given day. Having substance listed as the reason a friend regrets to leave my table? Well, it took me a little by surprise.

But I found it rather refreshing.